Echoes in a Hollow Space

I was into a goddess phase for awhile. Empowerment, all that jazz. My personal belief structure has broadened since then, become (I hope) more nuanced and more inclusive. I no longer feel the need to make it a goddess vs. god universe. I like to joke that I worship the Holy Hermaphrodite, but that ain’t much of a joke. We’re all part of the same creation, yin and yang. We need to cut each other some slack.

I acquired this statue of Freya during that goddess phase, but mostly I wanted it because of that face. Who could resist it? She has such an open and serene expression that it makes me happy just to look at her. Surrounded by her gigantic necklace, Brísingamen, her hands folded meekly, you’d never know she was such a kickass female—a war goddess. That appealed to me, too, at the time. It still does to a certain extent, but what also appeals to me about Freya are her other associations with love and fertility, and her personal longing for love. Her husband, Odr, was frequently absent, you see, and she cried huge tears of red gold for him. Which proves yet again that no matter how strong and powerful we are, we can still be laid low by love.

If we’re lucky. The capacity to love is a blessing. Being laid low by it is a symptom of how open our hearts are. I was looking hard for love when I acquired this statue of Freya, a perpetual search back then. She resided in my bedroom in my old apartment, standing atop a cabinet my father made for me to hold my huge collection of earrings. Given her Brísingamen, it seemed an appropriate place for her.

Am I still looking for love? Not in the same way I was back then. I am not so particular about the kind of love I receive, not looking only for a mate. Love of any kind is a blessing, and the fires that drove me to find a partner are banked low these days. I wouldn’t turn it down if it came my way, but I don’t feel the need to seek it. Things change. Fires of all kinds renew. Phoenixes rise from ashes, and so might my quest, but mostly I’m glad not to be consumed with it anymore.

I’m pretty much a Jungian about such things. The journey within, self-knowledge, is the true goal, the true gold. That’s our only shot at understanding anything truly meaningful about the universe. I believe there is a Higher Something, but our human minds can’t comprehend it. All godhead is the same but because we are fragmented creatures we come up with a multiplicity of aspects to portray that godhead. All paths lead back to the same source, and we can’t approach it with externals, but sometimes there are very nice things that help us see an aspect of that Something.

Some years after buying the Freya statue I decided that my mythic world might be a little unbalanced and (since my pocketbook was not as challenged) I also acquired Freyr, Freya’s brother and lover. Very phallic, but that’s probably food for another post. Freya seemed much happier having him around and so was I. We please our goddesses as we please ourselves.

I have lost touch with many aspects of my sacred journey, my mystical journey into the dark heart of myself and out the other side into the light. It’s a fairy journey, into and out again. I hope to return to that rediscovered country, to see what else it can show me, and to settle myself in the now instead of the hoped-for future and much-regretted past. These things in my room are merely touchstones, aspects of a more profound reality inside my own heart and soul. Looking at them fresh again, remembering why they were important in the first place, is part of the journey back to that forgotten land. Renewal waits around the next turn in the road.

*Inspired by Xavier de Maistre’s book of the same name, I will be journeying around my sitting room/writing room as the mood strikes me and reflecting on the larger life meanings of the things I find there. The things themselves are not important—they are just objects—but hopefully those remembrances and reflections will be of interest. Another irregular series that I will probably keep up with . . . irregularly.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

In a recent blog, the wonderful and irrepressible Maeve, a character “created” by the novelist Elizabeth Cunningham, is talking about her author. “Who do you think she talks to when she wakes up in the middle of the night?” she asks. “Who do you talk to?”

This made me pause and ask myself that same question. I didn’t have a ready answer. Not that I don’t talk to someone when I wake up in the middle of the night, but it’s not someone I can readily name. That Someone has been there listening for a good long time—maybe most of my life—but it’s not one of my characters, and I don’t think I’ve ever assigned the Listener a name. Or even a sex.

Originally, I was going to call that someone the Silent Listener, but that’s not strictly true. Sometimes that still, deep place answers back. No, I don’t mean I hear voices in the room. I mean that there are times when something bubbles up from the deep well of the Soul Place, a communication from…Well, yes, that’s the question. From the Beyond or from the Deep Within, hard to say which. Maybe both, maybe neither.

All I do know is that I can chat away about anything with the Listener. I can figure things out in our mostly one-way dialogue. When I’m really talking to the Listener, and not some hollow echo of my own reactive mind, there’s no judgment. In fact, there is often the subtle pulse of reminder that what I’m thinking or feeling isn’t so peculiar, that many people have felt or thought that way in the past, that I’m all right, doing the best I can.

Whoever is on the other end of the line, it’s a blessed communication.

Who do you talk to in the middle of the night?

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.